Introduction by Joel Burcat
Essay by Jessie Goldberg Burcat
People often ask me whether “The Zibbiter” was a real place or something I invented for Whiz Kid. The answer is simple: yes, it was real. It was a stretch of South Seventh Street, in Philadelphia. The name “Zibbiter” derives loosely from the Yiddish ordinal number for seven, i.e. Seventh Street.
It was a bustling outdoor market run primarily by Jewish immigrants—somewhat akin to New York’s Lower East Side. In addition to the shops, the streets were lined with pushcarts. Vendors were constantly shouting for attention. You could buy just about anything there: kosher meat, fish, vegetables, children’s clothing, shoes, hardware, even paint. The Zibbiter was crowded, noisy, and, yes, smelly—but it was alive. My research shows the market thrived from the late 19th century until about 1960, when the pushcarts vanished and many Jewish shopkeepers either retired or moved on. In their place came a new wave of immigrants, chasing the same American dream.
If you’re familiar with Philly, you probably know the iconic Italian Market on South Ninth Street which is still in existence. That competed with The Zibbiter and has outlasted it largely thanks to an influx of new immigrants who have taken over much of it. The
Italian Market is a wonderful place. If you do not know Philly, you may recall the movie Rocky, when the hero is training and jogs down a street with pushcarts and vendors lining the street. THAT place. (Context: In the movie, a few minutes later Rocky jogs up the steps to the Philadelphia Art Museum, which is over three miles away.)
Philly once had many similar neighborhood markets—on South Fourth Street, at Head House near South Street, and others. Today, only traces remain. Head House has become a boutique destination. The others, like The Zibbiter, are gone. Today, nothing remains of the Zibbiter except for a few shops. You might see in the entryway to a store a tile pattern with the name of the long-gone Jewish shopkeeper, but I have found nothing significant (I’d love for someone to prove me wrong).
My mother, Jessie Goldberg, lived at 2011 South Seventh Street (Seventh and McLean Streets), in the heart of The Zibbiter. As a boy in the 1950s, I vaguely recall visiting my grandfather’s notions store, Goldberg’s Notions and Trimmings. We discussed her neighborhood many times and she even made a rough map for me with the names of all of the shops that were near her home.
In April 1947, when she was sixteen and a student at Girls’ High on Spring Garden Street, she wrote a vivid description of her street—most likely for a class assignment. She saved it and gave it to me years later. As far as I know, it’s the only contemporaneous account of The Zibbiter.
Here is my mother’s eyewitness description of South Seventh Street in 1947, “The Zibbiter.” I have not changed a single word of it.
South Seventh Street
by Jessie Goldberg
April 29, 1947
The pungent odors of rotting vegetables and fruits sold by peddlers, mixed with the aroma of fresh bread and dead fish is unmistakably the trademark of South Seventh Street. This blend
of odors has been named “South Seventh Street Cologne.” One
cannot ignore the smell, for it seems to hit in the face like a
wet rag.
Upon entering Seventh Street one finds that it is almost
impossible to stop for a moment, for the tremendous
conglomeration of women shoppers is continually pushing forward. The unfortunate person who has not learned the ways of these women is usually completely at a loss as to what to do. No one stops for a moment to answer questions; everyone seems to be hurrying to buy “bargains.”
The noise of this busy market section is earsplitting. The
peddlers seem to be playing a game among themselves—one is
forever trying to out-shout the other. The cry of “apples,
bananas” is one continuous call which can be heard for many
blocks. The grind of knife sharpening machines, which can
inevitably be found on all street corners, is loud and grating,
and is enough to drive chills down one’s back. Intermingled with
the sounds are the piercing wailings that are so characteristic
of small children. Rising above the other sounds can be heard
the haggling between vendor and buyer, one voice insistently
demanding “twenty-five cents,” the other “twenty cents.”
Stands in front of stores protrude so far out on the
sidewalk, they almost touch the pushcarts lined on the curb
which makes it hardly possible for as many as one person to
pass. It would be a wise thing to petition “one-way” traffic on
each sidewalk because of the congestion caused by the throngs of baby carriages and pedestrians trying to make their way through. Street traffic too, is often held up by the continuous unloading of wares from huge trucks onto the carts.
The shopping district which extends for an area of four
blocks, attracts consumers from the large sections surrounding
it. The variety of wares offered range from shoelaces and
buttons to asparagus and string beans. Items too numerous to
mention, give shoppers the opportunity to purchase all their
needs in one small locality.
Pushcarts laden with all sorts of fruits and vegetables are
sure to tempt passerby to unobtrusively sample a few grapes and other items for sale. Scattered here and there are strands of
displaying remnants of brightly colored fabrics. Women gathered
around the stands are likely to be seen holding material up
against their bodies trying to imagine how the finished article
will look, usually discarding the yard after fifteen minute
debate with themselves.
And so the day wears on—the shoving, the arguing, the
shouting, the buying and selling, are at last over. The stands
are taken in, the pushcarts rolled away and peace is once more
restored